<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>youth by trashinc</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898290">youth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashinc/pseuds/trashinc'>trashinc</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Child Abuse, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Orgy, Parent/Child Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:14:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,689</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898290</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashinc/pseuds/trashinc</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't mind the fucking. Doesn't have to think about that part too much, dicks being dicks and orgasms being orgasms and Billy's preferences being pretty fucked anyway. It's the hope he hates.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Neil Hargrove, Billy Hargrove/Other(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>youth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A fantastic debut from our new Director of Waste Management.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Billy hates it. Not the fucking, honestly, he gets off on the fucking, doesn't mind the fucking so much. Doesn't mind the way they claw at his hips and the way they talk about him like he's not there and the way their come seeps out of his ass after the first couple loads, doesn't even really mind it when Neil yanks his head back by the hair and makes him clean them off when they're done with him. He gets off on all that shit way more than he should. He should hate that part. He shouldn't want it, should want it to stop, should beg for it, maybe. </p><p>He doesn't, though. Only thing he ever really bothers begging about is for Neil to let him touch himself, really, once the hot throb in his belly and the ache in his dick gets too much and the fucking isn't enough and he wants to come so bad he chokes on it. It doesn't do any good. The begging. No one ever touches him there. Neil doesn't let them. Doesn't let him either. Laughs at him and shuts him up with a dick down his throat. Half the time doesn't even bother to say no, only acknowledgment of Billy’s need the chuckle that cuts Billy deep, makes his cheeks fucking <em> burn </em> every time, spiky hot prickly embarrassment. He hasn't figured out how to turn that part off when they laugh at him. The rest of it he takes fucking shamelessly, moans on their cocks and licks up their come and doesn't even bat an eye, does what he's told and listens to them talk about him like he's a toy and takes all the names they call him until they get stuck in his head like a song and it barely registers, but the laughter makes his belly twist, makes his cheeks flame and his skin prickle. Makes his fucking dick throb too. He doesn't think about that too much. </p><p>He doesn't hate any of that shit. Doesn't hate the slap of their hips against his ass, doesn't hate it when one of them puts a half-hard cock in his mouth while another one rails him, doesn't hate it when they hook their thumbs in his pussy - his pussy, they call it - and spread him out and talk about how pink he is, how messy, when they spit on him, when they pull his hair so hard it makes his eyes water. Gets off on it. Fucking loves it, even, conditioned maybe. Has a hard time feeling like it's enough when all he's got is some soft bitch from school under him, kissing him, too gentle, all high-pitched whimpers and put-on breathy moans that Billy has a hard time taking seriously. He does it, but sometimes it takes thinking about this to get him there. He doesn't think about it too much.</p><p>What he <em> hates </em> , what he can't fucking <em> stand </em> , is the way it makes him feel right at the beginning, when Billy's had nothing but a spit-slick finger in him and then there's a spit-slick dick pushing at him and it <em> hurts </em> and he bites his lip until he tastes iron but can't keep the noises down and Neil brushes gentle fingers over the healing bruise on his cheek and shushes him, when he says <em> come on, I know you can do it, there you go </em> , fucking <em> hates </em> the way it makes him feel, warm and safe and <em> loved </em> and it makes his fucking stomach churn because he knows it's not true, knows that in a day or two Neil's gonna get drunk or he's gonna say the wrong thing and Neil's gonna call him a faggot and smack him across the face and slam him into a wall and he <em> knows </em> all that because it's always the same, because it happens every time. It's just hard to remember when Neil's brushing his hair back, telling him he's proud. Hard to think about when Neil's draped over his back with his arms around his waist telling him he's good, so good. He hates that part. Hates the tiny part of him that thinks maybe after this time it'll be different, maybe Neil will remember that he was good, that Neil was proud, that all his friends saw it too. Felt it. </p><p>He doesn't mind the fucking. Doesn't have to think about that part too much, dicks being dicks and orgasms being orgasms and Billy's <em> preferences </em> being pretty fucked anyway. It's the hope he hates. It's the warm bloom of pride when his dad tosses him the tiniest scrap of approval, and the way he’ll beg and crawl and lick it up off the fucking floor just to get a taste of it. Can’t stand that shit. Hates himself for it most of all, for how fucking stupid it makes him. Like, he knows. He’s not dumb and he’s not blind and he knows, bent over the kitchen table with Neil’s hand in his hair and his cheek pressed to the wood and the slick sound of hands on dicks and the slap of hips against his ass, the creak of the wood on the linoleum in his ears, like, he knows he should have more of a problem with the rest of it. </p><p>But then Neil’s hand wraps around his wrist and twists his arm up behind his back, gentle, kinda, not vicious when he pins it between his shoulderblades and the guy dicking him gets him good and his toes curl as heat stabs him deep in his guts and he <em> moans </em> and Neil scratches at his scalp, gentle again and says <em> atta boy </em> , all low and rough and tinged with pride or something like it and then Billy comes, shoots off while Neil’s fingers flex on his wrist and the hand in his hair presses his cheek hard against the table and the guy behind him swears and speeds up and Neil says <em> fuck, yeah, there you go. There you go. </em>and that shit is the shit that makes Billy hate himself. </p><p>Cause it feels, like. Good. Like really good. Like maybe he’s not the piece of shit Neil always tells him he is. Like maybe Neil doesn’t really mean it.</p><p>Neil doesn’t usually fuck him at these things, just watches and laughs and feeds him scraps and gives him hope and makes him come and makes him hate himself for it. Watches while his friends take turns, holds him still while they feed him their dicks, pushes his head down until the floor is clean if any come drips onto it, his or otherwise. Talks about him, sometimes. Pats his cheek when someone comments on how tight he is, how nice his body is, how <em> well-behaved </em> he is - and he <em> is, </em> willing and pliant and receptive and hungry for it, even, sometimes - slides a thumb into his mouth and laughs and says <em> yeah, when he’s got a dick in him. A real fucking handful the rest of the time, aren’t you son? </em>and Billy sucks, moans, muffled because he knows better than to stay quiet even if it makes him burn and also because it makes him hot, because he’s fucked up and because it gets him off. Doesn’t fuck him, though. Not with an audience. Keeps his jeans on and never touches him any deeper than that finger in his mouth, and that’s even. Billy doesn’t like thinking of it as a treat.</p><p>When Neil is particularly pleased he cracks open a beer and sets it down in Billy’s eyeline and leaves it there while they all zip up and give his ass one last smack or his shiny lips one last swipe with their fingers. Nights when the beer appears on the table usually mean he’s in for at least a few days reprieve from Neil’s temper. If Neil ruffles his hair and tells him <em> you earned it, </em> he can usually count on a week before the next time Neil remembers what a fuck up he is. </p><p>He never moves until he’s alone, stays splayed over the table until the last bootfalls fade and the front door closes, then blinks his eyes open and takes shaky breaths and winces a little as his limbs tingle and start to wake up, as his back cracks and pops as he straightens up and the come starts to really seep out of him. </p><p>He drinks the beer fast, stumbles to the shower, cleans himself up, scrubs and scrubs until he’s raw and pink.</p><p>Neil never fucks him with an audience. Neil stumbles in hours later, breath smelling like whiskey and pulls the blanket off his naked hips. Neil slides into his bed and touches him so fucking gently, at least on the nights when he leaves a Billy with a beer, and Billy squeezes his eyes shut and spreads his legs and knows that this night Neil won’t fist his hair and smash his face into the pillow until his vision starts to blur and his lungs scream. Nights when Billy gets a beer he also gets fucked nice and deep and gets reminded how good he was, gets his wrists held down firmly but not bruisingly, gets shushed gently when he can’t bite back the sounds he makes. </p><p>Sometimes Billy thinks maybe he’d rather get the shit kicked out of him. It never lasts. Neil never thinks he’s good in the daylight. </p><p>He always comes though. Every time. Falls asleep sore and sticky in a puddle of come after Neil climbs off him and pulls his jeans back up and closes the door to his room silently. </p><p>He doesn’t think about it much. In the morning he’ll wash the memory of it down the shower drain and everything will be the same as it always has been, and if Billy can play it right Neil will pretend he doesn’t exist until the next time. That’s the hope he clings to in the daylight, desperate, stupid thing he becomes when there are too many hands on him tucked away deep until Neil coaxes him out again. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>